


do hickeys hurt, akaashi?

by GreenyLove



Series: twitter threads [6]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Domestic Fluff, Feelings Realization, Love Bites, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenyLove/pseuds/GreenyLove
Summary: “Are you okay, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks, accepting the empty cups, mugs with wine stains along the rim, stacking them all in the sink.Bokuto tilts his head and blinks, startled. “Huh? I’m great, Akaashi! It was the best party!” He smiles, wide and toothy. “Are you okay?”“Yes,” Akaashi says mildly. “You just look like you have something serious on your mind.”Another thoughtful silence.“Do hickeys hurt?”
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: twitter threads [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1814404
Comments: 20
Kudos: 292





	do hickeys hurt, akaashi?

**Author's Note:**

> okay this used to be chapter two of 'kissing practice' but that really bothered me? like yes they are related but bokuaka deserves to stand on their own. so, sorry if you commented on the original upload. :( but i can finally sleep easy. 
> 
> originally shared as a thread on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/greenywrites).

“Hey, hey, Akaashi. Don’t panic, but...I think Kuroo left.” 

Contrary to his own advice, Bokuto is clearly panicking, his expressive eyes wide, his mouth pinched. He’s bouncing on his feet in the kitchen doorway, sipping his beer through a neon curly straw. Still, he manages to drip some down his chin, which he wipes off on the back of his hand. “Do you think he was kidnapped?” 

Akaashi calmly refills his wine glass. Chooses his words with intention. 

“No kidnappers would be brave enough to target Kuroo-san with you around,” he says. “Don’t you think, Bokuto-san? 

Bokuto squints, thinks, then his shoulders relax. “Good point! I would totally stop them. No one messes with my bro while I'm around.” He grins proudly, blinding mouthing for his straw and missing completely. Akaashi executively decides that his friend has had enough beer and politely confiscates his cup. 

Bokuto doesn’t object, still chasing the train of thought that led him away from his guests and over to Akaashi. “But still, isn’t it weird for Kuroo to vanish during his own party? Do you think he went to sleep?” 

Akaashi bites back a deep sigh, sweeping the living room for a suitable redirection with casual indifference. “Bokuto-san,” he says, gesturing to the speaker streaming music from Kuroo’s phone. “I think the playlist has entered radio mode.” 

“Crap! It’s gonna play Kuroo’s stupid pop music. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.” 

“Ah, thank you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, with much sincerity. Kuroo admittedly has a terrible taste in pop music. Bokuto strides off with the air of a superhero delivering justice. Akaashi watches him go and then spares a single long-suffering glance to the closed door at the end of the hall. It’s been less than five minutes since the missing host slipped away with Karasuno’s tall, blond middle blocker. Akaashi will give them another fifteen minutes, uninterrupted, because he’s feeling generous. He adds another tally to the list of Favors Kuroo Owes Akaashi, and follows Bokuto into the crowd. 

#

They are thick in the middle of an intense (and highly unorthodox) game of Uno when Tsukishima reappears in the living room. His face is flushed and his shirt collar is damp — Akaashi would guess he splashed water on his face. The blond snags another drink and makes it to the opposite side of the room before Kuroo makes his equally casual entrance. Akaashi catches his eyes and quirks an eyebrow. He gets a cheeky peace sign in return.

Only Kuroo can woo his crush in the middle of a boisterous party and get away clean. Or so he thinks, until Yaku suddenly looks up and points at Tsukishima’s neck. 

“Nice love bite, moon boy!” he yells, words slurring. Tsukishima slaps a hand over his neck but it’s too late — the room explodes. Hinata gapes like a fish and Nishinoya stumbles over to shake Tsukishima’s hand. Or, attempt to. The blonde looks like he is moments away from committing murder or melting into the floor. 

Akaashi’s eyes flick over to Kuroo, just in time to see him send Tsukishima a genuinely apologetic grin, before he wades into the middle of the excited pile of drunks. Directing all attention to him, and away from Tsukishima. 

Ah, so he does love him. Akaashi smiles into his drink. Cute. 

The party begins to wind down. Bokuto gives Kuroo a congratulatory and not at all subtle high-five. The ace is back in good spirits, but seems distracted. Akaashi follows his gaze, expecting to find Hinata or Yachi, but instead finds…

...Tsukishima? 

No. The hickey on Tsukishima’s neck. 

It happens quickly. Bokuto’s mood visibly dips in the time it takes Akaashi to pick his way across the room of sobering-up men hunting for their shoes. Does...he like Tsukishima? Is Bokuto jealous? Is he worried about Kuroo spending less time with him? Akaashi prepares to intervene, but when he reaches Bokuto’s side and can see his face up close, he realizes the finer nuances of his mood. He’s not sad. He stares at the purpling bruise on Tsukishima’s neck with the same intensity he gives opponents on the court. It’s not jealousy. It’s...hunger. 

Curiosity. 

“Bokuto-san, please help Shibayama-kun find his jacket,” Akaashi instructs with a gentle touch to the ace’s bare arm. Off he goes, helpful as ever, and Akaashi has a moment to think. Perhaps Bokuto is overwhelmed by the news that Kuroo finally moved forward with his crush on Tsukishima. The best remedy for an overwhelmed Bokuto is...ah yes, distance from the situation. 

As the two teams exchange hugs and promises to keep in touch or meet for game nights, Akaashi spies Kuroo and Tsukishima off to the side, whispering with their foreheads mere inches away. They eye each other shyly, hands firmly in their own pockets but obviously itching to touch. Finally, Kuroo seems to give in, reaching out to cup the back of Tsukishima’s head and tip it forward, planting a single intimate kiss on his hairline before turning away, leaving Tsukishima poleaxed behind him. 

Akaashi catches Kuroo’s shirtsleeve as he walks by. “You know, Kuroo-san, there is a new food truck down by the park. I believe they are open until 3:00 AM. And I think they sell crepes.” 

Kuroo blinks. “Uh, you hungry?” 

“Perhaps,” Akaashi says, glancing meaningfully over at a certain sullen blond, “some of your guests would like a snack before heading back to their hotel?” 

The gears turn. 

“They have crepes,” Akaashi repeats. “Strawberry crepes.” 

Light bulb. “I love your mind,” Kuroo wheezes, whipping back around to snag Tsukishima from where he lingers gloomily by the door. Kuroo looks back and points at Akaashi like  _ you’re the best _ before guiding the object of his affections out into the night with a hand against his back. 

Silence settles over the flat, the peaceful kind that postludes a joyful gathering of friends. Bokuto zips around diligently, collecting dirty dishes in his arms. Akaashi meets him in the kitchen, flipping on the faucet and holding a finger beneath, waiting for it to grow warm. This is his favorite part of these gatherings — not only because cleaning a mess is cathartic in its own right, but because he likes this quiet time with Bokuto, enjoys how the routine settles them. Normally, Bokuto chatters happily, and Akaashi listens, and it’s exactly what they need. 

But tonight, Bokuto is silent. Thoughtfully silent. 

“Are you okay, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks, accepting the empty cups, mugs with wine stains along the rim, stacking them all in the sink. 

Bokuto tilts his head and blinks, startled. “Huh? I’m great, Akaashi! It was the best party!” He smiles, wide and toothy. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” Akaashi says mildly. “You just look like you have something serious on your mind.” 

Another thoughtful silence.

“Do hickeys hurt?” 

Akaashi squeezes the soap bottle too hard, an excessive amount of dish detergent dripping onto the sponge. 

Bokuto continues, “I mean, I know what hickeys are and I know you get them from kissing but Tsukki’s looked kinda like it might have hurt? But Kuroo would never hurt Tsukki, so…” 

Akaashi nods thoughtfully, swirling a hand through the soapy water before rolling up the sleeves of his cream-colored sweater. Washing dishes. He can wash dishes. 

“Hickeys can sting while you are...acquiring them.” Just wash the dishes. “But it’s a good kind of sting.” 

“A good sting.” A pause, while Bokuto does another lap through the living room, returning with a stack of plates this time. His face brightens. “Oh, kind of like hitting a really powerful spike! You palm kind of throbs for a few seconds but it feels super great!” 

Wash, rinse, inspect, onto the drying rack. “That’s an excellent analogy.” 

Bokuto grins, cheekily, adding the plates to the unwashed side of the sink. “Guess all that English tutoring paid off, hey?” 

“You are a diligent student,” Akaashi says, although that is summarily false.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm: Akaashi washes and rinses, Bokuto dries and puts them away. There’s no music, but they don’t need it. Bokuto hums snatches of a song as he pads around, then trails off. Clears his throat. 

“I like that stingy feeling,” he states, too loudly, considering they are the only ones in the apartment and occupy the same room. 

“Which one?” 

“You know, the one you get from spiking a good toss.” 

Akaashi releases a breath. Bokuto presses on.

“Do you think I would like hickeys too?” 

Akaashi clears his throat. “I don’t know, Bokuto-san. Do you like kissing?” 

It’s a logical inquiry. A reasonable next step to their conversation. But Bokuto is unpredictable in his whims, and a look of absolute horror and tragedy overtakes his face. “I’ve never kissed anyone! Akaashi! Kuroo is beating me!” 

Flustered, up to his elbows in suds, Akaashi tries to keep up. “I-I wasn’t aware you were competing.” 

“I guess, we aren’t, but….” Bokuto sighs, distraught. “I’ve never been, you know, lovey-dovey with anyone before. Do you think it’s because no one trusts me? I know I’m loud and kinda clumsy and always ask for too many sauce packets when we get takeout.” He yanks open a drawer, and sure enough. “We have a whole drawer of sauce packets, Akaashi!” The drawer slams shut. Bokuto yanks his own hair. “I’m not worthy of romance!” 

Akaashi takes a moment to dry his hands and pinch the bridge of his nose and marvel at the indecipherable rationality of Bokuto Koutarou’s mind. His mouth wobbles as he fights off a smile, because honestly, what on earth is he supposed to do with this man? 

“Bokuto-san,” he begins soothingly, “have you ever asked anyone to be in a romantic relationship with you? Or to be...lovey-dovey?” 

“No!” 

There are a few dishes left. Akaashi needs something to do with his hands. He speaks slowly, meditative. “Sometimes it can be...frightening to admit feelings for someone. Especially someone as bold and talented as you. I’m sure there have been many people who admire you in that way. Perhaps they were simply too intimidated to say anything.” 

One day, he wants to say but can’t, heart twisting, you will find someone who can match your light instead of hide from it. 

The sink finally empties. Bokuto is quiet. Akaashi dries his hands, rolling his neck to one side and then the other. He is around to kneel down and hunt beneath the sink for a dust rag when Bokuto speaks again. 

“Hey, hey, Akaashi. You should give me a hickey.” 

Akaashi slams his head in his hurry to stand up. “Pardon?” 

He expects Kuroo to be back, to have snuck in somehow, silently daring Bokuto to say something unexpected and ridiculous using...hand signals, knowing them. But it’s still just the two of them, alone in Bokuto’s home, in a small kitchen late at night. Bokuto is still beautiful and still so beyond Akaashi’s reach, his cheeks still a little flushed, brows wrinkled as he explains himself. “Well, your tosses are the best. And you’re the best tutor. And you make the best yakiniku. So if I want someone to practice being lovey-dovey with me, I should also ask you.” 

Akaashi says a brief prayer for his sanity. “What, exactly, do you want to practice?” 

“Hickeys,” the ace repeats. 

Deep breaths, Akaashi. “You want me to give you a hickey. So you can...train...for being romantic?” 

Bokuto grins, relieved that Akaashi can puzzle out his intentions. “Yeah! That! But only if you want.” 

The kitchen is too small. They stand against opposite counters and have less than two feet of space between them. Akaashi evaluates Bokuto, sharp gaze drifting across his broad shoulders, down the thickness of his sculpted chest. He wears a loose, sleeveless muscle tank, the kind that should look douche-y but on Bokuto just looks attractive. Akaashi finds himself particularly inspired by the sculpted slope of his trapezius. 

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice soft. 

Bokuto wets his lips. Meets his gaze. “Always, Akaashi.” 

Akaashi’s mouth tugs into a small but genuine smile. “Okay.” 

Bokuto returns it with his own beaming grin, before squaring himself, puffing out his chest. “What should I do?”

A considerate pause. Akaashi rests his hands briefly on his best friend’s shoulders, squeezing, feeling the resistance of his muscles. “Shirt off.” 

Bokuto reaches back to grab the hem and tug, the motions highlighting his biceps. The tank drops to the floor, and Bokuto is broad and golden and breathtaking. 

Akaashi’s hands return to his shoulders. He bites his cheek to keep from ogling, to keep his eyes firmly on Bokuto’s face and not on his flat stomach, his hip bones, his dark brown nipples. “Stand still.” 

One hand drags across his collarbones, up his neck, into his wild hair. Forms a loose fist and lightly tugs. “Tilt your head, like this.” Pulls gently again, and marvels at how Bokuto obeys. 

Akaashi takes another moment to appreciate the sight before him. Bokuto’s beauty is...of nature, geometric, like the fractal spirals of succulent growth or the reflective symmetry of butterfly wings. Akaashi wants to calculate the slope of his jaw with his mouth. He presses his palms flat against Bokuto’s chest, smoothing through the curling hairs there, to hide the way his hands shake. 

Bokuto inhales sharply, a nervous hitch of breath as Akaashi leans forward and erases the distance between them. His heart pounds beneath Akaashi’s palm, so the younger man pauses, giving him time. Akaashi accepts that he wants this, so badly, but if Bokuto says stop, they stop. 

But Bokuto only deepens the stretch of his neck, skin pulling taut across tendons, and he doesn’t ask to stop, so Akaashi goes. 

He starts gently. A chaste press of closed lips against the flesh of Bokuto’s neck. For spatial awareness. So Bokuto can focus on exactly where Akaashi is going to ruin him. 

He presses again, and again, soft and methodical kisses until he has completely mapped that side of Bokuto's neck. The ace is obediently still. 

“Akaashi?” His breath rattles, like just this much has knocked something loose in his lungs. “Isn’t this just normal kissing?” 

Akaashi brings his mouth back against his skin, feeling the heat and the friction as he speaks. “Do you trust me?” 

“Yes, Akaashi.” 

He smothers a smile in the crook of Bokuto’s neck. “Good. You’re doing very well, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto lets out a low, aborted whimper that sets Akaashi’s brain on fire. He holds perfectly, perfectly still. 

It takes a moment to choose the ideal placement. The same dark eyes that mark the positions of players on a court assess the slope of Bokuto’s neck and shoulders before settling on a spot, right at Akaashi’s eye level, where he can reach with his mouth without strain. He’s going to be here for a while. His masterpiece will not be rushed. 

He slides his mouth across Bokuto’s skin, tasting the light sheen of sweat and the musk that is uniquely Bokuto: something earthy but refreshing, like catching summer rain on his tongue. It takes conscious effort to keep from drooling all over his naked shoulder, even as his tongue joins the game, carefully preparing his canvas with fond, even strokes. 

“A-Akaashi?” 

“Shh,” he soothes, rubbing his hands down Bokuto’s arms. “Good. It’s going to sting now.” 

Bokuto whines. 

The first drag of his teeth is gentle, exploratory. Acclimating for them both. 

The second drag is harder, incisors testing the give of tanned skin above corded muscle. 

Ten drags. Thirteen, and he stops counting. There’s just his mouth and Bokuto, his teeth and damp skin, the building heat as capillaries burst. A tremor starts somewhere in Bokuto’s core and ripples outward. A long, leisurely rake of Akaashi’s teeth and Bokuto whines again, louder. 

Akaashi leans back just far enough to appraise the swelling, the growing redness. He presses his thumb into the beginnings of a bruise and reveals in the way the man beneath him trembles. 

Akaashi almost has to stop, has to fight the urge to bolt for the door. What is he doing? This is almost too much, but what did he expect, agreeing to something like this? Doing something so intimate with Bokuto, his best friend, his guiding star, his weakness? 

“Bokuto-san, I —” 

“Did you...do it?” Bokuto audibly swallows and slowly rests his hands on Akaashi’s waist. 

Stiffly, Akaashi nods. “Yes.”

Bokuto’s voice is barely louder than a whisper. “I think I liked it.” 

Akaashi considers the blooming bruise. “Was the experience what you wanted? Did you learn what you hoped to learn?”    


Arms slip around him. Suddenly he’s secured in a familiar hug and he can feel Bokuto grin against his hair. “I learned that Akaashi is the best at everything.” 

Tenderly, he hugs Bokuto back, resting his arms around Bokuto’s neck, aware that his face must be deeply flushed. “I’m the first person to do that to you. How can I be the best?” 

Bokuto shrugs, lifting Akaashi’s arms up and down. His smile grows wider and wider, brighter and brighter. “No arguing. You just are. I guess you were wrong about something, though.” 

A sleek brow quirks up. “Oh?” 

“You said that I'm the strong, intimidating one,” Bokuto says, growing shy, “but I actually think I'm the scared one.” He leans in closer, conspiratorial, his own face flushed. It occurs to Akaashi that his friend is still a little drunk. 

Bokuto whispers loudly, “I really like you but I’m kind of nervous to tell you.” 

Silent laughter shakes Akaashi, stunned and delighted by the brilliant delight that is his life with Bokuto. “Bokuto-san, you just told me.”    


Bokuto’s eyes widened. “What? Crap! This isn’t how I wanted to do it,” he bemoans, head tipping back towards the ceiling. “Kuroo said I should take you to that literary festival because that poet you like is gonna be there and that would impress you, and then after when we are alone I could say something like ‘you are the poetry of my life, Akaashi’.”

He presses his forehead against Bokuto’s chest, almost unable to handle the joy lighting him up, from the heart outward. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

Bokuto squeezes him, as if to say, yes.

“You don’t need to do anything to impress me,” Akaashi whispers into his skin, nose pressed to his pec, right above his quickening heart. “You don’t need to be experienced with lovey-dovey stuff, or take me somewhere prestigious.” 

“You deserve a perfect romance,” Bokuto objects. 

God, this man. Akaashi needs to be alone, he needs space or he’ll cry, but he can’t possibly leave the circle of Bokuto’s arms. Akaashi looks up. He wants to see his face. “You are perfect to me, Bokuto-san.”

The astonishment and wonder that soften and warm all of Bokuto’s features is worth it. “Akaashi! Damn! That’s the best, most romantic line!” The arms around him tighten, scooping him fully against that broad, wonderful chest. There is barely enough room for Bokuto to spin them around but he manages. “I’m so happy! But wait!” He jerks to a halt, almost dropping Akaashi’s weight entirely. “Do you like me too?” 

Akaashi laughs, soft and sunny. In that too-small kitchen, he holds Boktuo’s face tenderly in his hands and presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he says wetly, “I like you quite a lot.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! kudos and comments appreciated. this author responds to comments. <3


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